


Imprinted Masquerade

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Past Drug Use, Reference to past wounds, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 05:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: As Erik sleeps beside her, Christine contemplates his collection of tattoos.





	Imprinted Masquerade

She at once loves and hates the tattoos. Loves them for their beauty, for what they mean to him. Hates them for the reason he has them, for their other meanings, lesser known. The pain he has suffered, the hurt. The tattoos are hiding the secrets of his flesh, all that he has been through and what has been done to him by others as well as himself.

(Part of her is more than a little pleased that he has not gotten any new tattoos in the time she has known him.)

Take the roses. The lovely vines of roses up his right arm. They are a veritable garden in and of themselves, vivid green and deep red, and she has traced them and kissed them more times than she can count. But their delicate thorns hide a secret, that of the morphine habit that he fought before he knew her. And she is grateful, terribly, immensely, selfishly grateful, that she did not know him in those days, did not have to cradle him and pray that the addiction would not kill him.

She kisses the roses now, the ancient tracklines masked by the petals, and he sighs in his sleep but does not wake. It is good to see him sleeping, to see him resting and comfortable. It is so rare that he can truly rest, and her heart stirs at the sight of his face, slack and at peace.

Gently, slowly so as not to wake him, she twines her fingers with his. He has beautiful fingers, long and elegant, ideal for playing his music, and they look so very graceful when he writes. Simply the way they hold a pen takes her breath away, exerting just the right amount of force and always looking powerful. And the beauty of his fingers is set off by the astrological map spread across the backs of his hands. The stars are not labelled. Any labeling would need to be tiny to fit and would be illegible anyway, but Erik does not need labels. All of the constellations are there, and when he is awake she can trace her fingertips over them, and he will breathe to her their names, his voice low and soft as silk.

It was glass that damaged his hands, scarred them along with his wrists. And while the astrological map hides some of the marks, intricate Persian designs, like matching bands imprinted on his skin, disguise the ones on his wrist.

He told her that he acquired them in an opium haze, and did not feel any pain, but surely there must have been some pain when the opium wore off. And perhaps they are the reason that the undersides of his wrists are so very sensitive when she kisses them, and he whimpers so sweetly at the simple light press of lips.

There are more tattoos, so many more of them. Grape vines on his back hiding whip scars. An owl on his stomach, perched on a branch where once a knife pierced his skin and the Daroga, the dear old sweet Daroga, tended to him until his fever died away. And there are musical notes on his legs, a time signature even, printing a haunting piece of music he heard on a dark night in Russia, and when his legs are together she can read the song, and the very sight of it goes straight to her heart.

And all of it over his face. Every single tattoo, every mark, every beautiful terrible thing, all because of his face. Because of those people who could not look past it, who could not see how sweet, how gentle, how caring he can be beneath it. But if one kicks a dog of course the dog is going to bite back, and it is no wonder his life has been so stained in blood over the way they treated him, but no more. Never more. Not as long as she is here. And she would remove every tattoo if she could, burn them all off, if it meant that he had never had to bear all of that, never had to be hurt so badly.

And he sighs as she presses herself closer to him, and kisses him gently on the temple, and here, together, none of that terrible history matters. And she can pretend that the tattoos are simply that, and not one more piece of his armour.


End file.
